Comfort Ndlovu

Poor and Parched and bare and dry Poem by Comfort Ndlovu

Our hands are bare and dryPlease give us a little oil, Our lands are poor and parchedPlease bring rain to our sandy soil, Our hearts are bruised and brokenfrom daily trouble and tears and turmoil, Our flesh is red from the rising scourgeand our wounds are beginning to burst and boil, Our eyes are hindered sight by fog and black mistThick like smoke from a mosquito coil; Poor and parched and bare and dry our souls daily becomeas we battle to build our blocks in heart-rending toil.

All is at stake, all at stake is; All men and animals are never at easeSo I cry I cannot flySo I weep I cannot leapbut I'm drawn in between the crocodile's frownand I wallow in a grey grave shallow.